You push yourself too hard. Yesterday you woke up at 5 a.m. because you couldn’t sleep and you took a shower while everyone in the house kept sleeping. You’d scheduled a root canal treatment at 7:50 a.m. Around 7:15 you drove alone to the endodontist. Your girlfriend wanted to come; she helps you and loves you. But you went alone. The waiting-room at your endodontist was filled with tasteful kitsch: floral-patterned couches, succulents in tiny pots shaped like teeth, a T.V. playing the Olympics in Paris, bowls of vanilla and chocolate Twinkies. How are Twinkies like a root canal? a sign over the bowl asks. We take the dirty filling out of your tooth and replace it with clean filling. You nod to the receptionist who gives you a sympathetic smile.
You wanted to be strong like your dad and do the procedure without any medication to calm you down. You sort of half-lied to your half-asleep girlfriend and told her you’d taken something. You know she worries. On the way to the office you made good on it though. You pulled over at a Starbucks and swallowed an Ativan with the water they gave you. The pills are tiny. Round and white. Now, they bring you to the chair, shake your hand, give you the sunglasses. You have a dead tooth. Number Two, the endodontist calls it. His name is Dr. Liang. He gives you a shot in the roof of your mouth that makes it hard to swallow. After a brief interlude, which you spend talking to the first-year dental student observing Dr. Liang, the doctor’s ready to begin.
Teeth symbolize power. Virility. You use them to rip, bite, and crush food, but you could also use them as a weapon against an attacker; you use them to help you form words, along with your tongue. Food isn’t just food, either. You know from reading Metaphors We Live By in graduate school that IDEAS ARE FOOD. As in, That’s food for thought, or Let me chew on that, or Don’t bring me anything half-baked. As in, That’s a lot to digest, or None of this news goes down easy. As if ideas and words could make you nauseated. Having your teeth all fucked-up makes you feel powerless in so many ways. Teeth have a social currency, too. Are they straight or crooked? White or yellow or brown — discolored? Did a person have braces as a child, that is, access to orthodontics? Fluoride in their water? Different regions, diets, countries, and cultures affect teeth. Teeth comment on class and power. An infection in someone’s mouth, the kind you had but didn’t know about, is close to the brain. You can suffocate from a tooth-related abscess. Loss of teeth is linked in the medical literature to heart failure.
Dr. Liang works for ninety minutes. He finds a secret nerve in your tooth that screams when he pulps it. He apologizes, but it can’t be helped; sometimes medicine’s like that. You’re grateful he can fix your teeth — that you have good insurance through the hospital where you work, that you caught the necrotic tooth early. That Dr. Liang — following a physician’s intuition — scanned your mouth and found the hidden abscess inside it. Once he treated it, you found immediate relief. Now, you’re on your second of three appointments, and soon this will all be over. You just celebrated your fortieth birthday in March. The student from the school of dentistry watches the procedure. They ask questions about the machine that cleans the inside of your tooth. Dr. Liang works quick and makes no mistakes. The nerve is very close to your sinus cavity. He has to be careful not to flood your sinuses with cleaning solution, he says, but he also needs to make sure he gets all of the nerve, because even half a millimeter will rot.
That’s around the time he finds the secret nerve. For five seconds it’s agonizing. You already know you’re not taking the day off. You write for neurosurgeons at a world-class university hospital. They need your help. You feel fine, too. Or you will feel fine once this is over. Your daughter starts school tomorrow. You need to remind her to brush her fucking teeth. Kid loves chocolate-chip cookies. That’s what you’re thinking about when the endodontist hits your nerve, the one that couldn’t get numb, that no one knew was there. Hang on, he says, I’ve got you, and he means it. Not all doctors have a mastery of the technical skills they need, including their tools, as well as a deep knowledge of the etiologies underlying diseases; fewer still have both of those and a love for their patients. This doctor has all three. So, you trust him. You think about your girlfriend. How you get to see her soon. Your daughter. How much you love both of them. How love sustains us. Heals us. All you have to do is hold on for maybe five or ten seconds of blinding pain. First, though, you have to survive it, but pain, like everything, is temporary. And then it’s over. You’re healthy and joyful again.